


Caliban

by 2ShadowWolf7



Category: Original Work
Genre: Beast People, Dragon shifter, Dragons, Elves, Kind-Of-DnD-Style, M/M, NOT A WASTLAND, Orcs, Post-War, Science Fiction & Fantasy I guess?, is that a thing?, think AOT for the walls i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2ShadowWolf7/pseuds/2ShadowWolf7
Summary: The year is 2236.In 2020, War had struck out across the entire continent, causing well over half the human race to go extinct. The war was stopped under several treaties with what was left of humanity, and they each gathered what was left of their population and built their own walls.In all, there are exactly seven cities with people thriving.But you can't expect everything to always be perfect. There would always be thieves, killers, and criminals of all sorts.***The killer they call Caliban is not what they say he is. Framed for a murder he had not committed(without memory of doing so, if at all) and later judged unfairly in court, sentenced to death. That is Death, by the sword.
Relationships: Oliver Emir(OC)/Greyson(OC)
Kudos: 1





	Caliban

**Author's Note:**

> So this is one of my older works, I WILL edit this but I'm putting it up now so yall can get a look at it.

_"The mass murderer known as Caliban has been spotted in the outskirts of_ **_Toja_ ** _. He appears to be injured, most likely in his first dash to escape the authorities.-"_

Curled up on the sofa with a large hardcover book in his lap was Oliver Emir, a pair of rounded glasses set at the bridge of his nose, and long curly hair found its way into his eyes.

The reporter continued to analyze the scene, giving the maximum of details she had just from watching live. Oliver, nose still buried in his book, took to listening in on the news rather than watching, preferring to read his book.

Marking his page, Oliver sets the book down on the coffee table and stretches his arms above his head. In the background, the tv cut to a full-screen view, showing what was happening in the field. The only one paying the news any attention at all was Oliver's 57-year-old butler.

Baston Oleander sat in the olive green armchair across from the soft grey sofa. A pair of silver glasses sat atop the bridge of his nose, magnifying his wrinkled dark brown eyes.

"Baston, shouldn't I be in Toja for this?" Oliver spoke in a hushed tone, pursing his lips as he finished asking his question. The butler looked over, locking eyes with the young boy, and set his cup of tea on the table.

"That all depends."

"On?" Baston hummed, reaching once more for another sip of his tea.

"What the court decides." Standing up, Baston meanders into the kitchen, rinsing his cup out in the sink and setting it in the drying rack. 

Tuning an ear to the tv, the old butler listens in on the news person.

_"-in custody as of right now, he will be held in the cells below the Daxton Courthouse as we await the arrival of the three judges."_

Oliver stood quietly in front of the tv, arms crossed, one hand gripping his chin as he was deep in thought.

"Have Conor prepare Blackjack and Ginger. I'd like to leave soon for Toja." Oliver suddenly orders, taking his book from the table and heading up to his room.

"Yes, sir." Baston bows politely, turning to the entryway. Conor lived in a small spare room at the stable, with the other workers.

Slipping on a pair of boots and a light jacket, Baston headed out to relay the young Lord's order.

Outside the house, the sun shone brightly on the afternoon sky, showing through the light covering of clouds. A few hundred yards to the right was the main pasture where the horses would be let out to graze for the day, rotating the ones in the stable out at night for their turn.

Conor was resting against the round pen, watching as Sofie broke in a palomino mare.

"Good mornin' sir. How's the master?" Conor inclines his head slightly in polite greeting. Stopping beside him, Baston politely nods back.

"Mr. Oliver wants you to prepare BlackJack and Ginger, he wants to be in Toja in an hour."

"Yessir." Dipping his head once more, Conor jogs off to the stable.

Back in the house, Oliver was packing a small travel bag; fully aware of his intent to spend the night if need be. The small travel bag would hold his change of clothes and money to rent a room at the motel.

 _I want to shock them._ Pursing his lips, he digs through his dresser for one of his more fancy vests and a white button-down shirt to put on beneath it. To top off his outfit; he added a pair of black jeans and combat boots.

"Are you ready to go, sir? The horses are waiting out front." Taking one last look in the mirror, Oliver snatched up his bag and makes his way outside.

Standing by with the horses, the reigns held tightly in both hands, Conor bowed his head the second Oliver strode out the door. Handing off BlackJack's reigns, he takes Oliver's travel back and hitches it up behind the saddle, testing to see if the bindings were tight enough that it wouldn't fall.

"Anythin' else, m'lord?" Shaking his head, Oliver slips in the saddle. Baston rushes out the door, carrying his own travel pack.

"We'll most likely not be back tonight..." Oliver begins, trailing off.

"You gonna go oversee the trail for tha' shifter?" asks Conor, inclining his head in interest.

Oliver wanted to snap at him to mind his own business, suddenly feeling extremely short-tempered. Instead, he takes a deep breath in through his nose and exhales shortly. Turning to Conor, Oliver nods.

"Be safe, sir!" 

* * *

The trip from home to the main gate took a good hour, at a walk. At a trot or gallop, it took a mere twenty minutes. The town of Toja was off the first turn and the Miner town of Vastád off the west road. Oliver's destination was however not in Toja itself but in fact, was in the town just outside the second wall; Mirallas.

Daxton Courthouse was wedged between the jail and the river. It was an older building, one of the first built after the walls.

Urging the horses back into a trot, Oliver and his butler make their way to the courthouse at a steady pace.

Turning down Milkyway Street, they make the last few blocks to their destination. Daxton Courthouse sat ahead, looming dismally in the afternoon light. The building itself was made of stone, with a large wooden porch and a stable off to the right, just beside the jail. The courthouse shared the area, allowing officers and anyone of higher authority to use it for free.

Dismounting the horses, they hand them off to the stable workers, and the bags are taken by a young girl, who says she would be taking them up to a pre-paid room at the Inn.

"Sir? I believe they have him locked up beneath the courthouse, probably with a dozen or so guards as well." Oliver nodded mutely, tapping his fingers against his thighs in thought. 

"Let's go." He decided after a few moments. It would be better just to get it over with.

Taking long strides, Oliver was at the door leading to the cells below the courthouse in less than a few seconds. Twisting the brass knob, the door creaks open as they step inside the candlelit entryway. Down the hall, lit profusely with candles, were doors on either side. At the very end, one led down to the basement where Caliban is being held.

Stepping away from the door, Baston closes it behind them. Boots thudding lightly against the wood floor, Oliver takes the lead.

At the end of the hall was a pair of guards, guns holstered, staring quietly at the pair.

"Hold; this section is off-limits." One of the guards spoke, moving in front of the door with one hand reaching for his gun and the other pressing into Lord Oliver's chest.

"Officers and officials only, leave." It was clear that the man did not recognize Oliver as Lord Emir.

"Pardon me, officer. I am Lord Oliver Emir, of the House of Emir." The man's brows furrowed in confusion before he jumped aside, and apologized for his not recognizing him.

"Young Lord, I apologize, I did not recognize you, the last I had seen you was several years ago, your much taller now." He bowed his head fearfully, no longer blocking the door.

"It's fine. I'm here to see-" He was cut off, as the other officer was already opening the door.

"The only one here is that shifter. I figured you're here for him unless you're in the wrong place?"

"No. I'm here for the shifter." The guard nodded and motioned for them to follow him.

"Right this way, sir." Leading them through the door, the guard takes them down the stairs, into the damp basement.

"He's the last cell, on your right." The officer pointed down the dark hallway, towards the very end.

Nodding quietly in thanks, Oliver strides down the hallway, already almost at the cell by the time Baston started to follow.

The cells beneath Daxton Courthouse varied in size and placement of what was in them. In one the bed(if it had a bed) would be placed on the back wall, beneath the small rectangular window, and the toilet would be at the front of the cell attached to the wall. In another cell, there might not even be a bed, or it might be against the wall.

Hearing footsteps, Caliban fearfully lifts his head, peering through long bangs to the metal bars that kept him separated from whoever enters the dungeon.

Oliver stops at his cell, arms folded across his chest as he scanned the damp area. His dark green eyes locked onto the supposed killer, reading his body language in hopes that his suspicions might be correct upon first meeting him. 

He wasn't _wrong_. The first thing he took note of was how his skin seemed to ripple, and in certain areas, there wasn't skin, but **_scales_** , sifting against the surface, rippling like waves over his skin and disappearing beneath once more. Stress, Oliver surmised, watching as another patch of scales arose on his stomach, and rippling once more to skin. 

Oliver could detect not an ounce of hate, anger, rage, whatever you want to call it.

 _This man is no killer_. He thought, crouching down, tilting his head to catch the eyes of the accused.

His _eyes_ , Oliver noticed, were not normal either. They were a mix of purple and blue, swirling together yet somehow remaining separate.

A choked growl escaped his throat, and he jerked at the chains encasing his hands. The cuffs around his wrists dug into the skin, cutting into him and causing blood to steadily drip down his arms, sides, and to the floor.

In addition to the marks the cuffs were creating, he already had lost a lot of blood from a previous injury. Running from his hip, down his inner left thigh and then over his knee and down the outer length of his leg. There was also a gash across his chest from who-knows-what.

Dropping away from 'lord emir' mode, Oliver's so carefully masked persona dropped. Blinking, he sat down on the cold stone, crossing his legs, and leaning forward.

"Hello." The convict blinked in confusion. This was much more different than how he had first appeared. He seemed like a stuck up government official when he'd first stepped in front of his cell, but the sudden _innocence_ ; It was unexpected.

"Can you tell me your name?" Oliver was almost whispering, chin resting on his hands, leaning forwards towards the bars.

Clenching his jaw, Caliban lifted his head the rest of the way up, exposing the metal clamp they'd secured around his jaw, locked at the back of his head. _Just a little something in case you think about burning your way out_ , the guard had said as he locked it in place.

Oliver let out a small 'oh', chewing the inside of his lip as he thought.

"Baston, get the guard. I'd like that piece of metal removed..." The butler nodded silently, whisking himself back down the hall to the guards.

Looking back at the captive, Oliver curled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his arm as he crossed them over his legs. Caliban's pupils had narrowed to slits, a filmy membrane would pass over each eye whenever he blinked, like a reptile's. He was more beast than man right then.

Head tilted curiously, Oliver uncrossed his legs and stuck the twig-like limbs through the gaps. Scooting all the way forward, his chest and crotch pressed against the bars, Oliver gripped an iron bar in one hand and the other inched through the gaps, reaching for the prisoner.

Caliban was chained only half a foot from the bars, Oliver could easily reach him if he shoved his arm all the way in. Instead, He only reached far enough to gently press down on a patch of scales on the captive's leg, a patch that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not force the scales back.

Oliver's fingers traced gently over the scales; smooth but also rough to the touch, like snakeskin, but thicker, tougher, and sharp at the edges. 

Suddenly wide-eyed, Oliver snatched his hand away, tripping away from the bars and clutching his hands tightly to his chest.

"I'm sorry." The apology came in instinct. Oliver knew he would sometimes do weird things when he zoned out, he just happened to be wondering what the scales felt like, next thing he knew he was rubbing a visible patch of them on the stranger's thigh.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry." Caliban tilted his head as Oliver pressed himself against the wall, apologizing over and over, like a broken record almost.

"Lord Emir, sir?" Baston had reappeared with a different guard than before, who held two keys in the palm of his left hand.

"Yes?" The mask reappeared instantly as the other man spoke, leaving the prisoner blinking as he tried to keep up.

"You're sure you want that removed? It's there to stop him from burning the place to the ground..." Oliver didn't listen to the guard, he pushed off the wall and snatched the two keys up.

"Thank you, you're dismissed." He snapped, eyes unfocused as he tried a key into the keyhole of the cell.

"Yes, sir..." Dipping his head, the officer made a quick retreat as Oliver pulled the gate open and stepped inside.

The prisoner's eyes glowed a dark amber as Oliver stepped closer, and unleashed a deep rumbling snarl at the back of his throat.

Blinking, Oliver paused, standing right in front of him, looking down into his eyes. Caliban had reared backward, sitting up on his heels, and leaning precariously backwards, seeming if he moved just a bit more he would topple back, but the chains held him firmly in place.

"I just-I just want to-to talk, please." Holding the keys up, Oliver slowly knelt in front of the Prisoner and reached out for the lock keeping the piece of metal covering his mouth.

"Don't do anything you'd regret later." He whispered, inserting the key into the padlock, locking eyes with him as Oliver turned the key.

The lock clicked open, and Oliver withdrew the key, and slowly lifted the lock away, and dropped it onto the floor. He did not attempt to remove the metal himself, instead, he dropped back, crossing his legs once more, and stared, waiting to see what the prisoner would do now that his mouth was free.

He did nothing for a few moments, simply staring at Oliver as if he could not believe he had just removed the hunk of metal that was keeping him from burning the building down. Licking his chapped lips, the prisoner slowly leaned forward, back onto his knees and off his aching heels.

"Better?" Oliver whispers, leaning back against the bars. Nodding in response, ' _Caliban_ ' opens his mouth to speak.

"M'Grayson..." He mumbles, eyes flickers back and forth between the young lord and the butler standing a few feet away. Oliver nods, tapping a finger against his thigh, deep in thought.

Greyson eyed him wearily, slowly relaxing in his presence. Oliver was strange, he dropped his 'stoic' mask as quickly as he picked it up.

Oliver was going over his plan, working out the kinks in his head, not ready to even suggest it'd work. But first, he had to absolutely sure.

"You didn't kill anyone, did you?" He asks uncertainly. Greyson blinked, confused. He'd thought Oliver believed he was innocent?

"I had to...she-she was angry, I had to." Greyson shudders, remembering the look of rage on the woman's face as she yelled at him to fix the mess he'd made at the market.

"So you did kill people?" Oliver starts again, scooting closer. Knees touching, Oliver leans a little closer and whispers into Greyson's ear.

"I can fix this."

**Author's Note:**

> as i stated, THIS IS NOT ONLY OLD BUT IN NEED OF EDITING. Yet I'mma post just for a sneak peek I guess, so hope it was at least mildly entertaining? This is also on Wattpad for the time being, so are all my other works.


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